Recently, a facebook post led me to an interesting article from 2015: The 100 Greatest British Novels. I love lists like this. I’ve found some of my best reads from lists, Harold Bloom’s Western Canon in particular. Lists and friends, actually. Return of the Native, Daniel Derronda, Silas Marner, many that I should’ve-but refused-to read in high school. From the list, it’s fun to see how many I have, or haven’t yet, read. I felt pretty good while I scanned down this list of 100. I got some new titles, some new authors. As I scrolled, I grew more and more curious as to which book would be #1. Then there it was. Unbelievable. I’d made it this far, and in the end, there it was- my nemesis. Middlemarch.
I call it one of the most over-rated books of all time. (Another being the scrambled mess Catch 22, but that’s, Ha!, another story.) I’ve started it twice, got a little over half-way through, about to the funeral, both times. Can reading the first half twice count as having read the book? I guess it doesn’t work like that. It’s one of the most scrambled, disorganized novels I’ve ever attempted. And there it is, at #1. I guess I really need to do it.
I’ve found it fortunate that my local library doesn’t have a copy. I gave my own away; but low, there is is, downloadable for free from Project Gutenberg. ePub, Mobi, PDF, plain text. My pick! So I’ll do it! I’ll put it on my iPad and keep at it, at least past the funeral. I’ll find out if the spoiled girl hooks up with the artist. Or the doctor. I’ll do it.